John Creasey - Meet The Baron Страница 11

“Ye-esss,” murmured Lee again.

“And there is a certain collector,” said Mannering, with a widening smile, “who would be willing to pay good money for them; within reason, of course. Working on the hypothesis that the Rosa pearls were in the market, how much would you think they were worth, Mr Lee ?”

The Jew was rubbing his thumb across the bridge of his nose, and the expression in his eyes was remarkably cunning.

“Veil,” he said smoothly, “vorking on that strange hypothesis, my tear Mr Mannering, I might say — twenty thousand pounds.”

Mannering’s lips twitched at the corners.

“And now carry the hypothesis a little further. Supposing they were available in London as stolen property, and not in the open market? How much then, Mr Lee?”

Septimus Lee spread his blue-veined hands across his desk, and peered into Mannering’s laughing eyes. He was on his guard, Mannering knew: their swords were crossed.

“Vell — should ve say fifteen thousand ?”

“A little high,” said Mannering judicially. “If I — of course I’m no expert in pearls, Mr Lee — but if I were to estimate a figure for the Rosa pearls in those circumstances I shouldn’t go a pound higher than twelve thousand five hundred.”

“No?”

“Not a pound.”

Lee took his hands from his desk, and rubbed them together with a faint sliding noise. His eyes were half closed.

“Perhaps twelve thousand five hundred, Mr Mannering, and a percentage of commission for the middle-man, eh?”

“Come,” said Mannering cheerfully, “I’m assuming that only two people would know anything about the sale — the two principals. Would that figure be — er — acceptable, do you think?”

For a moment there was no sound nor movement in the room. Then Lee bent forward, with a little exclamation.

“Just how much do you know, Mr Mannering?”

“Just as much as I seem to,” said Mannering. The smile was still on his lips, but it had gone from his eyes. “You have the Rosas, Mr Lee. No one besides yourself and one other knows they are in England.”

“Two others,” said Lee thoughtfully. “My colleague — and yourself.”

Mannering nodded, and the laughter came back to his eyes; he had made his final thrust and scored well.

“Yes, of course. But I didn’t know until you confirmed it, Mr Lee. Shall I lay all my cards on the table?”

“It is an idea,” admitted Lee.

“H’m. Well, I was one of many who were prepared to purchase the Rosa pearls from the Randenbergs, and one of many who were disappointed when they were stolen. A friend of mine in America whispered — just whispered, Mr Lee — that sometimes you were in possession of gems which had — er — left the United States, and I put two and two together.”

“Because you were still interested in them?”

“Precisely.”

“Vell,” said the Jew slowly, “I vill not ask questions, Mr Mannering, although it would seem that you have strange friends. Just the one question I would ask. You are acquainted with the police?”

Mannering’s expression did not change.

“I am a collector of precious stones, Mr Lee.”

The Jew seemed to think for a moment. His eyes closed and his fingers intertwined slowly, tenuously. At last: “This twelve thousand five hundred pounds, Mr Mannering. The transaction would be cash, of course?”

“My cheque is as good as cash,” said Mannering.

“Ye-es, of course. But in transactions of this kind . . .”

“Mr Lee,” said Mannering gently, “I have every respect for you and your methods, but I would not bring twelve thousand pounds in cash into your office or your home for any purpose whatsoever. I heard a rumour that you have the pearls. Others might hear it too. My cheque against the Rosas.”

Again Lee seemed to lose himself in his thoughts, and there was silence for several minutes. He came out of his reverie, and nodded. Quick decisions, he knew, were essential.

“Shall we consider the matter settled ?”

“Time and place?” asked Mannering.

“These offices, Mr Mannering, to-morrow, at twelve noon.”

“To-morrow is all right,” said Mannering, “but twelve is too late. Ten o’clock . . .”

“Must it be so early?” Lee questioned.

“I shall be leaving London soon after eleven,” said Mannering. “If you care to leave it until next week . . .”

Lee shook his head, as Mannering had expected. Lee was not a man to keep a deal of this nature hanging fire.

“Ten o’clock, then,” the Jew said.

“Excellent,” said Mannering.

A few minutes later he took his leave of the financier, knowing that both of them were — so far — well satisfied with the interview. Mannering perhaps with more justification than the other.

Septimus Lee was a clever man, but there were things he did not know. He was unaware, for instance, that he was followed for the rest of the day by a man he would not have recognised even if he had seen him.

Mannering had little faith in disguises, but a beard was a simple arrangement, and he was not likely to be examined carefully while he affected it. His chief complaint was that it made his face hot and sticky, for the weather was still warm, but he bore the discomfort philosophically.

Septimus Lee went from the offices of the Severell Trust, in the Strand, to a safe-deposit in Southampton Row. He travelled in a Daimler saloon that purred through the evening traffic, while Mannering, bearded and in a Frazer-Nash, kept it in sight. Just for a moment, when the little Jew stepped out of the Daimler outside the deposit, Mannering thought he had slipped up. Then he smiled. Septimus Lee was too careful to hold the deposit-key under his own name.

But it was clever, Mannering admitted. The only likeness between the Jew who had stepped into the Daimler and the Jew who had stepped out of it was in stature. The first man had been old and wrinkled, while the second appeared to be young and smooth-faced. It was a remarkable transformation, and had he not actually followed the Daimler Mannering would never have recognised Lee in his disguise.

After twenty minutes Lee reappeared, and the Daimler moved off. In the brief interval Mannering had hurried to a near-by garage and complained that his Frazer-Nash was going badly, leaving the two-seater for repair while hiring a Vauxhall-Six. After leaving the garage at the wheel of the larger car Mannering also changed his beard for a heavy moustache typical of the Victorian era. No matter how keen Septimus Lee’s eyes were he could not have suspected the identity of the driver of the Vauxhall which left the kerb a moment after the Daimler.

The rest of the chase was uneventful. Septimus Lee owned a small house standing in its own grounds on the edge of Streatham Common. Mannering watched the chauffeur garage the Daimler and smiled to himself when he saw the stooping figure of the real Septimus Lee approach the front-door of the house. A clever old scoundrel was Septimus Lee.

Mannering drove back to town thoughtfully. It was just possible, of course, that Lee had not collected the Rosa pearls from the safe-deposit, but it was reasonable to assume that he had, and that for the one night they would be at his Streatham house. That, at all events, was what Mannering had tried to ensure by insisting on the early hour for the deal. If he had agreed to the midday appointment Lee could have got the Rosas in the morning.

For the first time since the Fauntley affair Mannering was faced with the task of breaking into a house and cracking a crib. In a way it was his real d£but; before he had known the strong-room and combination of the safe. Moreover, it was a long time ago, and his preparation had been absurdly inadequate. Now at least he had the rudiments of the craft at his finger-tips.

He had chosen his baptism carefully. If by any chance he was caught, it would be in circumstances that would make it impossible — or at least unlikely — for Lee to call the police.

But he did not propose to let Lee catch him. Unless . . .

Mannering was worried. He admitted it to himself as he let himself into his flat and foraged in the kitchenette for a light meal. There was something too easy about the affair. There was a catch in it somewhere, known only by Septimus Lee. What was it?

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE ROSA PEARLS

MANNERING FELT EASIER, FIVE HOURS LATER, WHEN HE HAD finished his inspection of the windows and the doors on the ground-floor of Septimus Lee’s house. Every window was shut and locked; every door was bolted. Obviously Lee was taking no chances, and Mannering was glad that his entry would not be too easy.

Using a pick-lock with a facility that would have earned the admiration of Charlie Dray, he made short work of the door of the kitchen-quarters. A row of trees at the edge of the garden afforded him excellent cover, and the rumble of an occasional night tram on the main road was the only thing that broke the silence.

The lock was only the first task. The bolts remained, and they were likely to be much more difficult. Mannering took a small chisel from the assortment of tools in his pockets and chipped a fragment of wood from the door. After ten minutes lie had bared the bolts sufficiently to get a purchase on them with a pair of thin-mawed pincers. He replaced the chisel and fingered the pincers. Something he could not explain warned him against using them. He felt that trouble would result; he sensed again the peculiar premonition that had worried him after he had traced Septimus Lee to and from the safe-deposit. It was absurd, but it was there.

Mannering breathed hard, and replaced the pincers. He must take every precaution, for the slightest slip would mean failure. He took his small pocket-lamp and stabbed a pencil of light at the top bolt. It looked innocent enough, but he repeated the action with the bottom bolt.

Then his eyes narrowed, and he smiled, without humour.

“I wonder who’s the patron saint of cracksmen ?” he muttered. “Wired up, all nicely set for an alarm.”

There was no doubt about it. A thin piece of wire ran along the bolt, the wire of an electric burglar-alarm. It was something for which he had not been prepared, and for a moment he was nonplussed.

“But I should have expected it,” he muttered. “Well, there’s a way of getting round that difficulty, but I can’t think of it. If the door’s opened, or if the bolts are drawn back, there’ll be the devil to pay. That is to say, if the bolts are drawn while the alarm-wires are connected. But if they’re broken . . .”

He smiled with more humour, and shrugged his shoulders. It would have been more satisfactory if he could have entered the house without spending time in cutting through the steel bolts, but the job had to be done. Fitting a thin, well-oiled blade to the handle of his outfit, he started work on the bolts. There was no sound beyond a low-pitched burr as the saw worked. Still the night trams rattled along the high road, and the trees afforded him complete shelter.

Ten minutes — fifteen — twenty minutes.

He was beginning to sweat, and his thumb and fingers were stiff with the constant movement, but the top bolt was through at last, and the wire parted with it. The bottom bolt was easier; all that needed cutting was the electric wire, which he could see as he looked downward. Less than five minutes sufficed. Then he used the pincers and drew the bolt back, slowly, carefully.

No sound came.

Mannering was breathing hard through clenched teeth. Once he stubbed his foot against the door, and the rumble that followed sounded like thunder. He waited, his heart beating fast, but there was no movement inside the house.

He used the pick-lock again. The lock clicked open, and he turned the handle. It squeaked a little, and he went rigid for a moment, only to curse his own nervousness. Then he pushed the door open. . . .

His heart seemed to stop as he peered into the darkness of the room beyond!

Something glowed, green and fierce, through the darkness. There was no sound, but two points of fire were there, unwinking. His hands seemed to freeze on the handle of the door, and his body went taut. The smile that curved his lips was frozen too.

“A dog,” he muttered, “and a well-trained one. Remember — electric alarms and dogs. I don’t mind breaking the alarm, but. . .”

He shrugged, and his heart beat more evenly. The dog still glared at him, without making a sound. Mannering dropped his hand into his pocket and drew out the gun he had used on Detective-Inspector Bristow a few weeks before. It was loaded with concentrated ether gas, reckoned to create unconsciousness quicker than anything else he could conveniently — and safely — use.

Mannering knew that he was taking a big chance. Unless he was within a foot of the dog the gas would be slow in its effect — and Mannering needed speed. But if he went too close the brute would probably jump at him.

“It’s worth it,” he muttered. “Now . . .”

With his gun-arm outstretched he went forward. The eyes did not flicker, but the rumbling in the throat of the brute warned him of the coming leap. The green eyes moved . . .

Mannering touched the trigger.

There was the slight hiss of the escaping gas and a choking gasp from the dog as it came at him. Just for a moment he was afraid that he had failed, but the outstretched legs were stiff when they touched him; there was a dull thud as the brute dropped down.

Mannering was hot, then cold, as the perspiration on his head and neck cooled in the keen night air. He shivered several times, and had to clench his teeth to stop himself. But there was a gleam in his eyes, a wild, exultant beating in his heart. He was through!

Carefully and silently he closed the door behind him and dragged a curtain over the single window of the room. The distant lights of the high road were shut out. For a moment Mannering stood in the black darkness. Then the pencil of light from his torch stabbed out, and went eerily round the room until he found the electric-light switch, and flooded the room with light.

His first glance was for the dog. It was breathing softly and regularly, its great mouth gaping a little to show sharp, white teeth, its eyes closed. He wondered that it had kept so quiet; when he saw it was a Great Dane he knew why. But for the ether gas he would have stood little chance; the dog would have brought him down and kept him down with hardly a sound; they were quiet beasts, easy to train.

The slightest of grim smiles lit Mannering’s eyes. Mr Septimus Lee was certainly a man in a thousand; he had even trained his dog to tackle an intruder in silence. It seemed that he was prepared for night-attacks on the house, and he was equally prepared to keep knowledge of them from the police, who might have been alarmed by the baying of the Dane. Lee wanted no inquiries, Mannering guessed, and his admiration for the Jew’s shrewdness increased.

The darkness of the rest of the house was appalling and Mannering dared not switch on the lights, for he had no idea whether the curtains were drawn, and there was no time to waste in trying each window. He kept the white beam of his torch trained towards the ground, where it would prevent him from stumbling on any unseen obstacle, while being invisible from outside.